The Honey and the Avocado

I know what they say about me. I hear the whispers at the market when I pick out my avocados. Too ripe, not ripe enough, green like sickly flesh. Their eyes dart away when I look up, but I know they’re talking.

I don’t mind. Not really. I just wish they’d say it to my face.

I used to live with my sister, Caroline, before she left. Not left like she moved away—no, that’s what the doctors say to make it sound normal. She left like honey slipping off a spoon, slow and sweet, leaving behind only a little stickiness that no one wants to touch.

She liked honey in her tea. “Raw honey,” she’d say, “not that syrup you buy from the gas station.” She had rules like that—about food, about people. She liked her avocados just before they turned, when they were at the edge of being rotten but still soft, like they had secrets.

That’s how I found her.

No, that’s not right.

That’s how I remember finding her.

It was a Tuesday because Tuesdays were for cleaning. The house smelled like lemon polish and damp rags. I made toast with honey and sliced avocado, just the way she liked it, and took it upstairs. She hadn’t been out of her room in days, but I figured she’d be hungry.

I knocked. No answer.

The door wasn’t locked, but it stuck a little when I pushed. And there she was, sitting on the floor by the window, head tilted to the side like she was listening to something I couldn’t hear. Her hair was tangled. Her lips were cracked.

There was honey on the floor. A glass jar tipped on its side, golden syrup pooling into the cracks between the floorboards. It looked like it had been there for a while. The ants had found it first.

“Caroline?” I set the plate on the dresser.

She didn’t move.

I remember reaching for her shoulder. I remember the way her skin was cold, how her mouth was slightly open, how something wasn’t right.

I don’t remember what I did next.

The police came, I think. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe I called them, maybe I didn’t. All I know is that Caroline isn’t here anymore, and people at the market look at me like they know something I don’t.

They never found the honey jar, even though I told them about it.

They never found the plate of toast, though I swear I left it right there.

I stopped eating honey after that. Avocados too. Every time I see them, I get that sticky feeling on my hands, even when there’s nothing there.

Caroline used to say that honey never spoils, that archaeologists found pots of it in ancient tombs, still good after thousands of years. I think about that a lot. How something can last forever but still be forgotten, sealed away with the dead.

There’s a crack in the floorboards in my room now. Small, almost invisible. I swear, sometimes, I still smell honey.

Maybe I should move.

Maybe I already did.

I can’t remember.

https://todaysurvey.today/writers/re-lie-ability-an-unofficial-challenge%3C/p%3E%3C/div%3E%3C/div%3E%3C/div%3E%3Cstyle data-emotion-css="1x3zcuc-StoryContent">.css-1x3zcuc-StoryContent{pointer-events:none;}